


Four Seconds

by theweightofanother



Category: Sherlock BBC, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Gen, Inspired by Fanart, John Watson is not a Victorian widow except when he is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-11
Updated: 2012-08-11
Packaged: 2017-11-11 22:47:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theweightofanother/pseuds/theweightofanother
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At his worst, John was still, ever and always, a thoughtful human being.  Despite Mrs. Hudson's fears, he did not fall into some overbearing depression, he did not quit his job and lie about the flat all day, and he certainly did not drink himself into oblivion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Seconds

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This is my first fan fic, inspired by this [picture](http://coeykuhn.tumblr.com/post/27989276257/feyuca-selkiesiun-black-hole-waltz) by [Coey Kuhn](http://coeykuhn.tumblr.com)  
> and [feyuca](http://feyuca.tumblr.com) on tumblr. I saw this post first, then had a lot of feelings and really hoped that someone would make a story to accompany it. Then no one did, and then I wrote a story anyways. I'm considering doing a continuation, because I'd like to see the aftermath myself, but then I'm just getting into writing. Anyways, enjoy!
> 
> The title is from the song [Jumpers](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vREfgKNgqkQ) by Sleater Kinney.

*

At his worst, John was still, ever and always, a thoughtful human being. Despite Mrs. Hudson's fears, he did not fall into some overbearing depression, he did not quit his job and lie about the flat all day, and he certainly did not drink himself into oblivion.

Most days, at least. He mourned, of course he did, but he also knew that he was still breathing as much as Sherlock wasn't. He was a grown, living man, who, contrary to the belief of those around him, wasn't going to wilt and waste away like a delicate Victorian widow. His limp returned, as did the nightmares, though everyone ignored the former and didn't ask about the latter. 

Granted, Sarah cut down his hours at work until he argued that work gave him an escape, a time to be useful and not risk falling into the trap of sitting around the flat brooding. He worked more after that than he ever had when Sherlock was alive.

Molly was the first to begin “checking in” on him, always bringing candy that he tried his best to refuse (after the funeral Mrs. Hudson had immediately begun baking, and John gained three pounds within the first two weeks). She asked him delicately worded questions, all timid and seeming to revolve around whether or not he was going to off himself the moment she turned her back.

After the first month, Lestrade starting coming around again, stopping in with pizza (he knew better than to bring Chinese, at least) and a few beers, though he studiously watched John's every move, as if he expected the man to break down at any moment.

John rolled his eyes whenever he caught Lestrade in the act. If John was going to have a mental breakdown, it certainly wasn't going to be in front of Gregory Lestrade.

Or Mycroft Holmes, for that matter, who waited at least six months before kidnapping John, Anthea bringing him to the traditional warehouse setting for these sorts of confrontations, rather than the office.

Mycroft was thinner than he had last been, the only real sign of any sort of mourning; his suits had already been tailored to fit his slimmer frame. 

Thankfully, he had shown John none of that well-meaning pity he faced with the others. He merely read aloud John's work schedule, asked after Mrs. Hudson, and, after deducing in person that John was coping better than anyone could have hoped, he left John alone.

*

The year's anniversary came and went, with Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade showing up at the flat at the same time, ostensibly to spend time with him, all suitably sheepish that their plans were as transparent as they were.

"Have my own danger nights now, do I?" John joked, leaning against his cane as he stood in the doorway.

None of them laughed.

*

No, John Watson was, above all things, a thoughtful human being. Which was exactly why he planned this evening so perfectly.

*

The day had no real significance, but for the fact that both Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were out of town- Mrs. Hudson to visit her sister, Lestrade at some sort of conference in Glasgow. After her initial visits, Molly had distanced herself, so that John could reasonably assume that she wouldn't be coming by anytime soon. To be sure, he had called and checked, assuring himself that Molly had a full shift at the morgue. Afterwards, she'd likely be too tired to consider dropping by.

Mycroft Holmes was a more complicated variable in the situation, of course. John could never begin to guess where the man was at any given moment. However, John planned/assumed/assured himself that even Mycroft, with cameras that were surely planted around the flat, would not arrive in time.

Assuming Mycroft even had cameras planted still. After nearly eighteen months, John had proven himself to be relatively sane. Not dating, of course, not that anyone would blame him. He was very devoted to work (vacation taken for the next two weeks, enough time for Sarah to rearrange schedules until a suitable replacement was found), he was devoted to helping Mrs. Hudson when he could (he had stocked her supply of “herbal soothers” after she left to last her quite awhile), and seemed to be all around devoted to being “all fine,” or at least as fine as he could be. No real reason to keep wasting the resources just to watch him fix tea or do laundry or fall asleep in front of the telly.

And besides, waiting on Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade to leave had not been a matter of- of preventing prevention, as it were. Morelike he didn't want either one to be the one to find him, which is exactly why his letter would arrive addressed to just the Scotland Yard tomorrow morning, alerting them of his body. 

Assuming Mycroft Holmes and his people didn't find him first. To be honest, John didn't really care if the man did. No real attachment there, and, more importantly, no real guilt to factor in.

As well as his gun had served him (well, served Sherlock), he had discarded the idea of using it almost immediately. A gun was loud, would attracted unwanted attention, would remind him ever and always of Moriarty's corpse on the roof of St. Bart's, lips still twisted in a manic grin. No, a parallel he'd rather avoid, putting himself in the same boat as Moriarty.

John had kept most of Sherlock's things, though he'd been quick to bin the experiments about the flat. He'd moved some of the odder and more memorable items (skull, harpoon, etc.) to Sherlock's room, that he kept shut up at all times with the plan to eventually ask Mycroft to take what he wanted and leave. 

Sherlock's scarf had been returned to him by Molly, along with his coat. “Didn't seem right,” she'd told him, her voice going wibbly as she tried to keep her face professional. “Clothes like that, going in the ground. His coat alone probably cost more than my salary-” She'd choked at that, and John had hugged her and thanked her graciously (somberly), and taken the clothes.

Both had been washed of blood, of course, and of Sherlock's scent. John folded them neatly and left them on Sherlock's bed.

*

Once John knew Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson were safely out of town, he'd locked the flat, then gone into Sherlock's room, picking up the scarf and folding it around his neck. It was wishful thinking, really, but after over a year in the sealed room, the scarf almost smelled like Sherlock again, the hint of his bloody expensive cologne and tobacco, as if Sherlock could ever quit smoking for long. 

John had considered making an afternoon of it: fixing their favorite tea, browsing through some old cases, but though better. Best to have it done, he'd been planning for months, after all.

John wasn't the type to play the anguished hero. Sherlock had been the one to worry over things constantly, rattling his brain for the answer. John just acted. After he'd visited Sherlock's gravestone, after he'd had that unhelpful-as-usual session with Emma, he'd decided he was done. He'd been done for sometime now, and was merely waiting for the circumstances to line up.

At four, then, he'd found the foot stool from the kitchen and set it up in the living room .

He had tied the noose efficiently enough, pleased that the scarf was just long enough that he hadn't had to bother going to find rope instead. Though, undoubtedly, there would probably rope somewhere in Sherlock's room, in the suspicious corners that John hadn't bothered to check yet.

John had just finished arranging the noose, tightening it, balancing himself on the stool, when his phone vibrated. He looked at the number- blocked, of course- and sighed. Things had been going so well.

“Hello then,” he answered, and for a moment the phone was silent. He heard a breath on the other line, a breath similar enough that he thought it might've been- could've been-

But then, he would have texted. 

“How fitting, John. You choosing to 'jump' and all. _He_ did too.” Mycroft's voice was as calm and polite as usual; John could nearly hear him resettling the tumbler on his desk after sipping his drink.

John smiled mirthlessly. “Caught onto that, did you?”

“I suppose I should be telling you not to waste your life, that Sherlock wouldn't have wanted you to do this, and etcetera.”

“If you'd like. Proper thing to do, I suppose. Not that either of you ever did the proper thing.”

“I'd much rather point out the failure rate of hanging as a method of suicide. If you're counting on the scarf snapping your neck, I assure you-”

“I'm more likely to suffocate. Yeah, Mycroft. I went to med school. One way or another, it will take care of itself.” He shifted uneasily, felt the stool rock under his weight, one leg shorter than the others. “You're not going to try and stop me then?”

“If I sent my best men at this moment, they wouldn't arrive in time. I haven't had proper security on you in months. Congratulations, you had me fooled into thinking you were doing well. I'm sure the others have no clue.” 

“Yeah, well, I tried. You'll take care of cleanup, then?”

“Anthea is already preparing a crew, yes.”

“Good. That's- that's good.” He swallowed, felt his Adam's apple bob against the material of the scarf. “Not going to try and talk me out of it, either?”

Mycroft sighed. “You hardly cared for what I had to say before, John. I doubt you will now.”

“You're right. Absolutely right.” John rocked the stool experimentally again. He was not stalling, not at this point. “Well, I suppose I'll- well, I'll not be talking to you later.”

“Hanging up so soon? Pardon the expression.”

“I've been waiting awhile, now, Mycroft. I'd rather not anymore.”

“Of course.” There was a long silence before Mycroft spoke again. “Life is the longest wait, isn't it? It's not really a matter of staying alive, for most people, but waiting until whatever comes next-”

“Mycroft. Not really in the mood for philosophy.”

“Of course not.” Mycroft hesitated one more moment. “I- goodbye, Doctor Watson.”

John nodded to himself, then replied, “Goodbye, Mycroft,” before hanging up and slipping the phone back into his pocket. 

Alone in the flat again, he closed his eyes, felt the rocking motion of the of the stool as he tested it. He took a deep breath, then exhaled. Less air in the system, less time this would take, he supposed. He breathed again, rocking the stool more violently, exhaling the moment he felt the legs slide out from underneath.

Longest wait indeed.

 


End file.
